


All I Want

by writergirl8



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Christmas Eve, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Feels, Married!Stydia, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 14:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13148457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: “If I’d known you were gonna get sick, like, once a year, I’d’ve told you to go into a safer profession than one that involves teaching.”“Like what?” asks Lydia wryly. “The FBI?”“Point taken.”





	All I Want

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone!!
> 
> My mom is a terrible gift giver so I thought I'd give the gift of magically domestic Stydia to get the bad taste out of my mouth. I hope this makes you smile. I had lots of fun writing it.

By the time Stiles gets home from the store, Lydia has woken up from her nap. She’s lying in the center of their bed, huddled against his pillow, petting the dog and watching makeup tutorials on her phone. For a moment, he hovers in the doorway, enjoying the sight of her face totally relaxed. It’s not like this usually. She’s usually tense and anxious and he has to kiss the worry of the day off of her lips. But right now, alone in their bed, she’s calm. 

He totally hates to ruin it. 

“Hey, I brought you soup,” Stiles says, knocking on the doorframe. Luke looks up in excitement before leaping off of the bed, running at Stiles, and then waiting for his single cursory pat before hopping right back onto the bed with Lydia. “Matzo ball. Plus chicken.”

“I told you I don’t want to eat anything.” Her voice is irked to disguise the annoyance that he knows she’s feeling at herself, not at him. She’s sick, she’s exhausted, she’s been nauseous for days, and now they have to go to dinner with her dad and the rest of his family, all of whom, by the way, Stiles and Lydia hate.

Ignoring her words, he sits on the bed next to her and pops the lid off the soup. The scent of the chicken broth fills the room, and he sees Lydia’s disgust even before she reaches for the trash bag at the side of the bed and throws up into it. 

Stiles rubs her back through it, feeling very much like he would enjoy grabbing his baseball bat and murdering whatever little shit at Stanford gave Lydia this virus. 

“If I’d known you were gonna get sick, like, once a year, I’d’ve told you to go into a safer profession than one that involves teaching.” 

“Like what?” asks Lydia wryly. “The FBI?”

“Point taken.” 

He caps the soup, puts it on her bedside table, and then sighs and wraps his body all the way around hers, pulling her into his warmth. On the bed beside her, the youtuber on her phone continues to gab on about contouring, and Stiles hates that he totally knows what that is. 

“The nap helped, I promise.”

“You _just_ threw up.”

“It’s just a virus.” 

“Lydia.” 

“Yes?”

“Lydia.” 

“Mhm.” 

“We have to cancel on your dad.” 

She lets out a groan, turning around so that she’s facing him. The bags under her pleading eyes are deeper than usual, he notes, and his knee jerk response is to run his fingers through her hair, trying to give her some sort of comfort amid the exhaustion. 

“ _No_.” 

“But wh—?”

“Because if we skip the Christmas Eve party, we’re going to have to go to an even more uncomfortable, more intimate sit-down-dinner when I’m feeling better, and we are going to desperately miss the twenty-or-so buffers that constantly get between us and conversation with my _insipid_ step-mother.” 

Though she has a point, there’s no effing way he’s conceding. 

“Babe.” 

“What, Stiles.” 

“Listen, you know that I think you’re just like… the sexiest, most beautiful, most _perfect_ woman in the world, right?”

“Right…”

“But, currently, you look like the Ghost of Christmas Past.” She snorts out a laugh into his chest, hiding her face in the George Washington hoodie as she giggles. He warms instantly. “And it’s really, _really_ cool to be married to a banshee, but… I don’t want to be married to a specter of some sort.”

“Not even the sexiest, most beautiful, most _perfect_ specter in the world?” Lydia teases.

“Not even the _smartest_ , sexiest, most beautiful, most perfect specter in the world,” says Stiles firmly. “Now, please, let’s stay home and just like… eat chicken broth and dry toast and watch bad TV until you feel better.” He smoothes her hair away from her sweaty temple. “Let me take care of you.” 

Lydia’s voice lowers into a taunting purr. 

“Somehow you saying that to me is even more sensual when I have vomit breath.” 

He winks at her, and Lydia’s cold foot nudges up against his, her small toes sliding up and down his leg. 

“Seriously,” replies Stiles, matching her demure tone. He kisses her nose once, then twice, and lowers his lips to her ear. “You look _pallid_ , babe.” 

Lydia hits him with a pillow, which he probably deserves, to be honest. Luke doesn’t even come to his defense; just stares at the two of them with casual interest as Stiles wrestles the pillow away from Lydia, kissing her neck where it tickles to get her to loosen her grip. They eventually stop when Lydia accidentally knees him in the stomach and is barely able to apologize through gales of laughter. 

“Anyways,” she says once she can breathe again. “We’re still going. Get up, get dressed.”

“And what if I refuse?”

“Then I’m going without you,” she tells him sweetly. “And, following that, you get to spend the whole night worrying about whether or not I fell asleep at the wheel while I was driving because you let your sick, _sick_ wife go out on her own on Christmas eve.”

“Right, okay, and what timedid you want to be on the road?”

“Six-thirty would be great.” 

“ _Fan_ t _a_ stic,” he replies, only a little cuttingly sarcastic, which Stiles would count as a win. 

“I love you!” Lydia calls after him as she steps into the bathroom to brush her teeth and take a shower.

“You better!” he calls back, then turns to Luke with very serious eyes. “I brought her _soup_.” 

 

They get the same look every time they tell someone how long they’ve been together— one of blank shock, confusion, and surprise. 

“Twelve?” the other person will say, aghast. “Twelve _years_?”

Stiles always notices Lydia holding back a cutting “no, _days_ , sweetheart” when she gets too offended by the look of incredulity. He’s never asked what bothers her about it so much, mostly because it’s more fun to come up with a list of reasons why Lydia could conceivably be pissed off. 

Number one is, of course, that she’s offended because people think marrying your high school sweetheart is a stupid idea and that she’d walked into a world of heartache. Which Stiles totally gets, because that pisses him off too. It’s weird to see the judgement in people’s eyes and to not be able to describe the path that had gotten them here. He knows people’s marriages fail when they get married too young, he _knows_ that— and, in fact, Lydia knows that better than anybody. But they aren’t just two random high school sweethearts; they’ve gone to battle for each other time and time again. It’s so much more than first love, and not being able to explain that can make Stiles crazy sometimes, despite the fact that Lydia is, and always will be, his first love. It’s not like they’re _wrong_. They’re just not right. 

The second reason why Lydia might be pissed off by this reaction is that she knows the other person thinks she’s too good for Stiles. In college, this concept would have been his personal nightmare. Now, six years into marriage, it’s a point of pride, and he always tries to tell if the person is wondering why she’s been with _him_ for twelve years— him over anyone else. He’s told her she can combat this concept by raving about what a good cook he is, which Lydia usually scoffs at and tells him she’d actually married him “so I could rule your small principality.” Stiles almost always asks if that’s a dick joke and promptly gets a loud groan of protest at his sense of humor. Then she kisses him and tells him that she’d married him because he’s her favorite thing in the world, which she tells him a lot. He’s come to take it as the “I love you” that it is, because if Lydia likes him more than she likes math, he’s in for life. 

Number three is that Lydia is so hot that other people expect her to have been in multiple marriages by the time she’s thirty, but the joke’s on them, because Stiles Stilinski latches on like a suction cup to a flat, non-porous surface. If she has a second husband, it’ll be him with a moustache. 

But the fourth and final reason that Stiles suspects Lydia gets so mad about people’s surprise about their relationship is that her mind flashes, immediately, to her parents. She thinks about the way they had fallen apart and she’d had to watch; thinks about the irresponsibility she feels their bad decisions had created. And he knows, in some ways, that she respects them less for it— for the way they’d come together, the way they’d fallen apart, the way they hadn’t really appeared to try. Lydia doesn’t want to be compared to her parents. She doesn’t want their marriage compared to her parents’ relationship. And, god, neither does he. 

He thinks that the fourth reason is probably the truest, and it hits the hardest because Lydia, in part, agrees with it. A small part of her will always be waiting for the switch to flp, no matter how much she trusts him with her heart. It’s one of the things he’d had to learn to accept about her. But it’s also something that Lydia has struggled to accept about herself. So when someone offers them the “twelve years?” with a look that would suggest they had been recently struck on the back of the head by an anvil, Stiles is usually the one who steps in and responds. 

“Yeah, our relationship’s a sixth grader,” he’s started joking this past year. “We had to give it the sex talk. It was super awkward.” 

“But… that means you were together in middle school, right?” the girl asks, doing the math in her head.

“High school,” Lydia says, way too sweetly. This girl’s gonna wake up with the head of a horse in her bed tonight if this conversation goes on for much longer.

“And she was my _best_ student,” adds Stiles, voice fond. 

Her date chokes on his drink, and Stiles crosses that particular space off of his mental “shitty person bingo” board for tonight. 

“Excuse us.” Lydia pulls him by the sleeve over to the food table, the crowd by which has thinned out a little since the party had started. “Could you stop torturing the friends of my step-siblings?”

“Why?”

She considers this for a moment. 

“Um.”

Stiles grins smugly. 

“I’m gonna win this one, I can _feel_ it.”

“You’re not, I’m going to…” She trails off, trying to come up with a reason still, and Stiles grows even more cheery. 

“God, not only can I feel it, I can _taste_ it. Actually, come to think of it, it tastes like your c—” 

“Lydia!” 

They startle as Lydia’s step-mother’s voice loudly pierces through the crowd. She emerges, platinum blonde hair staying perfectly in place as she moves through the room towards them. She’s only five years younger than Lydia’s mom, through her nose is at _least_ forty years younger, which Lydia had noted to Stiles with the spiteful mirth that could only be held by someone who truly hates her stepmother. 

“Ellen!” she replies, matching the older woman’s tone in a way that sounds genuine, but Stiles knows to be mocking. 

Seriously, Lydia is savage tonight. If she’s not careful, she’s going to forget to be rude like a wasp and actually become a bitch. Which, honestly, _Stiles_ would love to see, but he doesn’t think Lydia would appreciate tomorrow morning. 

“I saw you were talking to Yvonne!” says Ellen, after kissing Lydia on both cheeks like she’s from Europe. Stiles can confirm, with great certainty, that she is not from Europe. “Did you discuss her studies? She’s in a delightful master’s program for English literature, just like the one you teach, Lydia!” 

He feels his wife twitching in annoyance next to him and, once again, diverts the conversation smoothly. 

“We actually got sidetracked. She asked us how long we had been together and we got to brag about the fact that our relationship is old enough to have menses.”

The glass that Lydia’s holding clatters to the ground. At first Stiles thinks it’s because what he’d said was crude because, yeah, let’s be honest, that was pushing the limit. But then he sees the look on her face and he knows, he just _knows_ , without her having to say anything. It’s the same look of shock she had given him when she had fallen out of the trap and into his arms back in high school. She looks just as windswept and overwhelmed as she had that day, with her eyes wide, her lips parted in astonishment.

“Stiles,” she whispers. He doesn’t need her to say anything else, just grabs her by the wrist and tugs her towards the bathroom at the corner of the house. There’s a line, a long one, so Stiles tightens his grip and pulls a heavily breathing Lydia up the stairs. They finally break onto the landing and he spots a bathroom, ushering Lydia into it. 

“When was the last time you—?” 

“I don’t _know,”_ she replies, a little hysterically. “I… I can’t think, I don’t…” 

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” His arms are around her in seconds, squeezing her tight, and she hugs him back. “It would explain the throwing up, wouldn’t it?” And the exhaustion.” 

“Yeah,” she agrees. “It would.” 

“Have you been coughing and sneezing at all? Sniffling?” 

He feels her shake her head against his chest, rubbing across his fancy shirt, and he squeezes her a bit tighter, a reflex. 

Lydia pulls away and looks up at him, her expression moving from despondent to determined in mere moments. She backs out of his arms, ending up on her knees on the floor, searching through the drawers. When she finds nothing there, she pokes around the cabinets, letting out a sigh of relief once she finally emerges with a purple and white box. 

Lydia stands up, brandishing a pregnancy test towards Stiles as if she’s challenging him to stop her. 

“I’m just going to do it.” 

“There’s no way I’m gonna stop you, Lydia.” 

He sits on the edge of the shower, foot tapping anxiously as Lydia pees on the stick. They’re silent at first, waiting for the three minutes to pass, neither of them able to make eye contact with each other. Lydia has closed the toilet lid and is sitting on top of it in her fancy party dress, which shimmers far more than her empty eyes. He thinks that maybe she’s trying to keep her mind blank, so that there aren’t any expectations floating around in her brain. 

“If it _is_ positive,” she says eventually, surprising him. “I’m at least six weeks. Because that’s when morning sickness starts.”

“How do you know?”

She looks over at him sarcastically. 

“I read.” 

The timer on his phone goes off before he can retort, and Lydia snatches at the stick, her hand shaking. She stares at it too long, sweeping her eyes across it over and over again, and just when Stiles is about to jump out of his skin, Lydia turns the stick around to face him, showing him the purple plus sign that sits there.

“Oh my god.”

“Yes,” she agrees. 

“Oh my god.”

“I know.” 

“You’re gonna have a baby.” 

That’s when a smile breaks out across Lydia’s cheeks. She sets down the stick and leans forward, framing his face in her hands, tracing her thumbs up and down his cheekbones. 

“I’m having your baby,” she murmurs, kissing his forehead. “I’m having _your_ baby, Stiles.” 

He doesn’t mean to start crying, but he’s not sure if either of them expected anything less. Lydia rubs her hand across his back, just as he had for her earlier today. She pulls him up, standing on her tiptoes so that she can wipe away his tears. 

Her palm sweeps lower, and Stiles catches it, kissing the heel of her hand, the center of her palm, the side of her thumb.

“I love you,” he says into her wrist, feeling it so fiercely that it feels like he’s being shredded into pieces. “And I’m gonna love this kid so much. I swear to you, Lydia, I _promise_ you, I will never, ever—” 

“I know, I know,” she says urgently, cutting him off. Her eyes are so soft, looking up at him. “I know. You don’t have to say it, I _know_.” 

To prove it, Lydia kisses his lips gently, affectionate. He slides his hands around her waist when she tries to pull away, dropping several featherlight kisses against her lips. When he finally stops, it’s only because he feels the desperate, pressing need to make her laugh. 

“Shit, this kid’s gonna be _such_ an asshole. Maybe we should just give it to Scott and take one of his and then we’ll have two evenly balanced humans.” 

Lydia laughs, wrapping Stiles’ hand in hers. 

“Do you really think Scott’s goodness is enough to combat _both_ our genes?”

Stiles frowns, considering. 

“It’ll be _close_.” She shakes her head, a little disbelieving. “Do we have to get back out there?”

“No,” replies Lydia firmly. “Not tonight. We have more important things to do.”

 

It’s almost midnight when they finally arrive. Stiles rushes around the car to help Lydia out, tugging his hat lower over her ears so that she isn’t cold. Her curls had been matted down by flakes of snow when they had dashed to the car, so she hadn’t argued when he had shoved the tight knit cap over her head. It’s one of the first ones Melissa ever made— he can see her hair through the holes in the couch. 

Despite the snow and her high heels, Lydia moves to the door with great ease, her fingers clutching Stiles’ arm for comfort, not balance. She’s flushed pink from either the cold or excitement, and before they ring the doorbell, Stiles smacks a loud, wet kiss on her cheek. 

She’s beaming up at him still when the door swings open, bathing the two of them in brilliant yellow light. 

“Dad,” Stiles says, wrenching his eyes away from Lydia and turning towards his father. The sheriff is standing there wearing pajamas and a confused expression. “We have something to tell you.”

“Do you want to co—?”

“I’m pregnant,” Lydia blurts out.

The sheriff’s mouth snaps closed. Stiles watches him, watches as he blinks a few times in surprise. Watches as his eyes slowly fill with tears. 

“You’re pregnant?”

“You’re gonna be a grandpa,” says Stiles, voice cracking. His dad’s arms are tight around him a second later, slapping his back over and over again as they hug. “Are you happy?”

“Kid,” says his dad, pulling away, his hands on Stiles’ shoulders. “I couldn’t be happier.”

When he pulls away, he yanks Lydia into the house before hugging her as well, squeezing her tight. 

“Gotta get you warm. You got my grandkid in there.” 

Stiles watches them hug, watches Lydia tucked under the his father’s arm, snow in her hair and her eyelashes. She’s grinning, seeming so light and airy, and Stiles doesn’t have words to describe how euphoric this is, every bit of it. 

“You were about to go to sleep,” realizes Lydia, finally noticing the sheriff’s pajama bottoms. 

“Oh, I can’t sleep now,” he says, brushing it off immediately. “Anybody want hot chocolate?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, turning around and walking into the kitchen, whistling as he goes. 

“And you?” Lydia asks, turning to face Stiles, all business. “Are you happy?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Lydia, I’m…” He trails off, searching for the words, not sure if he’s going to be able to find them. “When you took my last name six years ago, I… I finally felt like I was building something again. Like there had been this _enormous_ thing missing in my life and I hadn’t even realized what it was until you… you... “ He stops, grabbing her other hand too. “I’ve never not had family. I know that. I’ve always had my dad, had Scott, had Melissa, had our stupid pack. And even when we were dating, you were family to me. We didn’t have to be married, you didn’t have to take my last name, for that to be real. But you _did_.”

“Of course I did,” she says sweetly. “When I married you I got your family too, you know.” She smiles, looking up at him. “And I got the _best_ family I could ever ask for.”

“You never felt like you were getting something too damaged to be repaired?”

She shakes her head, so serious that Stiles can feel it all the way down to his toes. 

“Did _you_?” she asks pointedly. 

“No.”

“So, no,” Lydia agrees. “Not once. You and your dad, you’ve always been… so much more than enough. This life we have? It’s so important to me.”

Now that they’ve started talking, he wants to monologue about it. He needs her to know everything this means to him.

“When my mom died, I guess it kinda felt like I was never gonna have this again— like, this unit of people who are _mine_. And now, not only did you marry me, not only do you take care of me every day, and let me take care of you, and love my dad so fucking much, and hold me when I need it, and make me laugh, and watch shitty movies with me. Not only do you do _all_ that, you’re giving me… Lydia, you’re giving me this thing that’s a part of us. A part of _me_. You’re giving me family.” He bends down to kiss her one more time before he finishes speaking. “Every day, I swear to god, I’m a little more yours, Lyds.” 

Tightly gripping his collar, Lydia nuzzles her nose against his. Inexplicably, he feels invincible. 

“I’m yours too.” 

“Lydia!” shouts the sheriff from the kitchen. “One marshmallow or two?”

“Two,” she calls back. “We have some planning to do.” 

“Why’s that?” asks Stiles, bemused. 

“Because,” Lydia replies, a twinkle in her eye. “We have to come up with a good way to tell Scott that he’s going to be an uncle.” 


End file.
